


Years of Grace: Postcards

by Mariquita



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Eventual Sex, Friends to Lovers, Human Castiel, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-05-28 07:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15044003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mariquita/pseuds/Mariquita
Summary: At a gas station just outside of Beaufort, Cas browses through postcards and picks out one with an old picture of an airbase.“I’m not paying for that,” you tell him even though you’re already sliding it across the counter to the cashier. Cas smiles at you brightly, hair messy, just a hint of the afternoon sun on his cheeks. You pick out a box of mints, the cash register pings.





	1. Took Baby out for a ride today.

  

 

> _01 - “Took Baby out for a ride today. She’s still a proper head-turner.”_

 

Here you are running at 60, packing the distance between you and Missouri. The Impala hums beneath you, steady. For once there isn’t the smell of blood on your skin. Just the synthetic scent of a year-old Little Tree hanging from the rearview mirror, the earthy smell of leather, and a tinge of sweaty feet.

Sam drones on beside you about a hundred and one reasons why you all should go organic. He has his foot out of his boot, propped up against the dashboard. On a regular day, you’ll be smacking his knee, telling him to put his foot down. But his ankle is swelling from a fall earlier at St. Louis. Your regular salt and burn. Easy. Except Sammy lost his footing at the bottom of the staircase and you stood there just laughing while Cas helped him up, a dark shadow crossing his face. In another life, he simply would have held his hand up to the broken bone, set it in no time and Sam will not be stinking up the Impala now as you drive through nothing but open road.

All in all, it was a good day.

“It just doesn’t add up anymore,” Sam says. “I mean, why pump yourself with all things artificial when you can harvest fresh from the Earth.”

 _Codeine_ , you tell yourself. Because that’s all you have in the glove compartment.

“I mean, Dean, you’re not getting any younger.”

“Yeah, well, you’re stoned,” you say, and turn the volume up on the stereo.

“Dean, I’m serious,” Sam whines over the music, voice slurring. He’ll be out like a light in a few minutes.

You look at Cas through the mirror and he’s watching the shadows of the trees outside the window. He looks about ready to vanish into the folds of space and time. But you know that he can’t anymore.

You think if this is worth giving up everything he was for. You, Sam, and this metal box cruising along the highway.

“What’s up, Cas?” you ask him because he’s been silent for some time now.

He sits upright, hair flat and mussed up on the side of his head. It takes him a while to answer. And when he does, you don’t hear him because Led Zeppelin is too loud on your stereo. You try not to remember that first time he ever tried to speak to you at a gas station, his voice loud enough to shatter glass and shake the ground you were standing on.

“Say that again,” you say, turning the stereo off. Sam’s already asleep with his mouth open and you have enough self-control to not put a straw in that mouth.

“There’s a river here some miles to the East,” Cas says, his voice rougher than normal from having been quiet for a long time.

“Yeah there is,” you answer, hoping to God he won’t start again with the bees.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just lets his head fall back to the window, mussing up more hair. You wonder if he’s just tired. These days, you’re always wondering if he’s tired.

“You a GPS now, Cas?” you say, as you slow down looking for the beat-up signboard selling tires, the only landmark that you’re near.

“No,” Cas answers, simply. “I remember it.”

“’Course you do,” you say, taking note of the familiar bend on the road, thick forest flanking both sides of the Impala. You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. _Home._

“I remember it,” Cas continues though, but doesn’t look at you through the mirror. “I made it. Or I helped make it. It wasn’t as long as it is now. It was just a fissure on the ground. And then nature took over. Water from the mountains started filling that fissure, and started its own path that grew longer and wider over centuries.”

Cas is older than the river and here he is sitting in your backseat, hair mussed, eyes tired. It’s something you still can’t wrap your head around so you grip the steering wheel tighter. It’s solid. Reliable. This, at least, you know. This, at least, you understand.

The walls of the bunker soon come into view, concrete and looking indestructible as if they have always stood there since the beginning of time.

 

\--


	2. It’s winter now. Lake is freezing over.

  

> _02 - “It’s winter now. Lake is freezing over.”_

 

It’s January when you get a call from Jody. Trouble up North again. Bodies turning up with deep lacerations on their chests, hearts missing. An all hands on deck kind of thing.

Cas is already waiting in the library in his overcoat, like he’s just about ready to step out and go to the office. You give him a once-over and decide that maybe he’s not dressed for Sioux Falls in winter.

“You don’t want to go out like that,” you tell him.

“Why?” he asks. “I always go out like this.”

The coat has seen better days. Frayed edges, ink stains around the cuffs, a small rip on the shoulder. It hangs like a sack over his borrowed shirts and jeans.

“That won’t do. Trust me,” you say, so you lead him to your room where you tell him to pick any coat he wants.

He rakes his fingers over the fabric of your clothes hanging in the closet like they’re fine silk and stops by a dark gray jacket with stains on the sleeve you were never able to wash off.

“You wore this the first time I met you,” he says offhandedly like he’s just remembered to tell you that you’re out of milk.

“That’s… That’s creepy, Cas,” you tell him because what else is there to say.

Before you can really remember the details of that night in the barn, Cas is already fishing out a parka you don’t even know you have. He’s saying he likes the feel of the fur underlining it. From the outside, it’s basic, just black. Looks expensive. You wonder briefly why you never wear it.

You watch as he peels the tan overcoat from his frame and it’s like watching him peel off a second skin. You’ve known him for years as the guy in the brown trench coat—overcoat he corrects you from time to time—and now he’s putting on a black parka. And maybe you forget that you’re staring, because he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, brings a hand to his neck and scratches at the hollow there. A thing he does when he gets nervous.

“How do I look?” he asks, uncertain.

And you shrug an _okay_. An understatement because the parka fits him like a glove. And it hits you how mundane all this is, picking up a jacket for winter. How like you, he’ll soon be worrying about which shirts to wear, which pair of jeans can take another day without washing.

“I guess it’s time to throw this one out,” he says, balling up the overcoat as if balling up a paper bag.

“No,” you say too quickly. “Give it here.” Maybe because you lugged that thing around for months after he vanished in the river. Maybe because it was what he was wearing the first time you met him, too, when he came in blazing like a star in that barn and your breath snagged in your throat out of fear or out of awe or a mixture of both.

You don’t mean to be sentimental but you like to think that these things ought to be special.

So you fold the overcoat almost reverently and put it in your drawer beside the leather jacket that used to belong to your father. It feels strange, like you’re burying the part of him that was angel.

 

\--


	3. I guess it’s about time I picked up a hobby.

 

> _03 - “I guess it’s about time I picked up a hobby. Fishing, maybe?—Sam knits. Poor asshole.”_

 

You can’t remember exactly when you started calling it home, but it is home, in every sense of the word. Never mind that it feels like a mausoleum, old and grand and musty. Never mind that it’s cavernous and maze-like and that there are a few things that go bump in the night in the dungeon. (Never mind the fact that you _have_ a dungeon.) There’s plumbing. There’s electricity. There’s always coffee ready in the pot. And sometimes, when Sam’s up to it, there’s always breakfast too on weekends.

Sam’s losing chess to Cas for the seventh time this morning.

“Jesus!” Sam says.

“I used to command a garrison, Sam. So it’s not your fault,” Cas comments casually now in his borrowed clothes: a pair of sweatpants from Sam and a ratty old t-shirt from your drawer.

“I don’t even know what to say to that,” Sam says, giving up.

It’s a Saturday and there hasn’t been a case in a week.

“I like weekend mornings,” Cas decides as he starts resetting the board while Sam glares at him through the top of a newspaper.

“They’re not so bad,” you say as you add too much syrup to your pancakes and bacon just because you can.

For once it looks like God who is tucked in his corner of the universe is watching out for all of you. It’s good. It’s comfortable. You think that you can get used to this stillness. For the first time in a long time you think that maybe it’s as easy as closing a book, giving up this life of hunting.

“Do you want to play, Dean?” Cas asks with a smug look on his face and you say yes even though you know you’re going to lose anyway.

 

\--


	4. Last night there was a firefly inside my room

 

> _04 - “Last night there was a firefly inside my room. You told me that when the place they live in gets bulldozed over, they don’t transfer, and they just kind of disappear forever.”_

 

It’s spring all of a sudden and it's a waste to stay indoors. You find yourself going on regular walks around the wilderness enclosing the bunker. Sam jogs ahead of you while Cas matches your pace. It’s always before breakfast, just before the fog lifts and the sun isn’t yet harsh on the skin.

Up an incline, there’s a clearing surrounded by foxtail. Nothing special. There isn’t even a view to speak of, but it’s quiet. You sit beside Cas on a fallen tree and you’re profoundly aware of the fact that he’s there beside you and that he’s breathing, and that, this, sitting together hearing him breathe is enough, comforting.

He’s squinting at something far, far away just behind the clouds. Times like these, you can’t even begin to ask him what he’s thinking.

It’s been more than a year since the angels closed the portal. They couldn’t risk another breach after Lucifer’s near take-over. Temporary, they said, until they smooth things out in Heaven. You were there, of course. You and Sam were always there whenever there were big changes in the world.

“Last chance, Castiel,” Hannah had said and Cas stood still, unwavering.

“I’ve made my choice,” he answered.

“You will forsake Heaven for this?” she asked, eyes flicking towards you and your brother.

When Cas said nothing, she wrapped her arms around him and held him longer than she should. You remember feeling something then, like a pin pricking your heart.

“I hope it’s worth it,” she had whispered in Cas’ hair. And she stepped onto the sandbox where the other angels were waiting. Soon they were gone in a burst of light and soaring wind.

When the theatrics were over, you found Cas doubled-over, spitting blood on the ground.

“I can’t feel them anymore,” he said, shaking. You remember how he had brought a hand to his face, asked what was happening, and you didn’t know how to tell him that he was crying.

Cas now points to a grove of trees just down the hill.

“There’s a beehive there,” he says softly and adds, “Did you know that an average bee only produces less than half a milliliter of honey in her lifetime?”

He looks at you, eyes astonishingly blue.

“I read that on Google,” he clarifies.

You think if this is really worth giving up everything he was for _._ Morning walks, and this dead tree, half a milliliter of honey per honey bee.

“I didn’t know that, Cas,” you say.

If anyone asks, there isn’t any remarkable reason why you suddenly started gardening that spring. You sequester a patch of ground just outside the bunker. You won’t tell Sam your favorite flower, won’t even admit to him that you even have one. But you place the forget-me-nots in the best terracotta pots and keep them in the shade where, you read, they like it better. Right before summer, you see a bee circling the asters.

 

\--


	5. I’ve been eating nothing but canned meat all week.

  

> _05 “I’ve been eating nothing but canned meat all week. Sam will kill me if this doesn’t kill me first.”_

 

Sam wins for the first time. Although he doesn’t understand how Cas can have missed that rook cornering his black queen. That’s how you find yourself sitting in a fancy Japanese restaurant. Sam’s treat, Sam’s choice.

“It’s not cooked,” says Cas, looking down at his plate.

“Just eat,” Sam says. “It’s good for your gut.”

“There’s a lot of bacteria living in raw meat. Also, these sticks—,”

“Cas,” Sam says, mildly annoyed or mildly amused. You don’t know anymore.

“Lie back and think of England,” you say under your breath as you take a mouthful of sashimi. It’s not bad, but it’s not something you will probably look for.

“England,” Cas says slowly, eyes narrowed like he’s really thinking of the country.

Sam rolls his eyes.

“You guys are such dicks,” Sam says, snatching Cas’ plate and chopsticks away from him. He signals to a waitress and orders yakitori. Chicken gizzard and liver because Sam is in the mood for retribution.

While waiting, Cas tries the “green stuff.” And it takes all your strength not to spew out the food that’s already in your mouth when Cas bristles, the wasabi finally kicking him in the nose.

That’s when Cas decides he doesn’t like Japanese food.

 

The drive home is quiet, pleasant, until Sam asks, “Do you ever miss Heaven?”

You don’t know why but it’s not something you talk about.

“Sam,” you say as a warning.

“Sometimes,” Cas answers vaguely.

“What part of it do you miss?” presses Sam and you don’t know if he’s still sore about that sashimi incident or if he’s just genuinely curious.

“I miss jumping through different versions of Heaven, and watching these souls live their eternal happiness. I miss,” Cas pauses and under his breath you hear him say “My brothers and sisters.”

You want to tell him that his brothers and sisters are in fact dicks. But the comment dies in your throat when you look through the rearview mirror and see him looking at the dark sky.

 

\--


	6. I'm reading this thing.

 

> _06 “I’m reading this thing Sam suggested. And it’s boring like hell like I predicted.”_

 

Sam heaves a great big sigh across the table, breaking the silence. The three of you have had your noses buried in books for hours. There’s little information on what Cas has identified as a Mogui.

“Who wants a beer?” you ask, slamming the book on Chinese mythology with such fanfare.

Sam raises a hand, eyes still glued to the yellowing pages of his book.

You look at Cas pointedly and he nods, stifling a yawn.

In the kitchen, you stick your face in the fridge. A 6-pack, a half-eaten sandwich, two bars of chocolate. This is how the three of you live sometimes, almost running on empty. Time to restock, maybe tomorrow. Maybe you’ll bring Cas along too because for some reason, he enjoys going to the supermarket like it’s some sort of luxury.

Back in the library, you find Sam and Cas hovering over the edge of the table, their books all but forgotten.

“Nice,” Sam says.

When you reach them, you see what they are poring over: the initials you have carved with Sam on the table. Underneath your initials there’s a newer addition. “C”. Cas holds the blade over the wood, contemplating what to carve next.

You put the beer down on the table.

“Just do it,” Sam says.

Cas squints, hesitates.

“Aren’t you supposed to get the last name of a person only if they married you?”

“We’re adopting you,” Sam explains as if it makes perfect sense.

The blade hovers for a second longer before Cas puts it down on the table.

“Doesn’t feel right,” he says, snatching a beer from the table.

“What, you don’t like our name?” you ask, light-heartedly, feigning astonishment because you’re bored and you’ve had your nose stuck in a book for hours.

Cas looks at you from across the table in the same way he does when he was still an angel, head slightly tilted in question. He’s now sitting on a swivel chair, beer condensing in his fingers.

“I have nothing against your name,” he says.

“I’m just kidding, Cas,” you tell him offhandedly. “But Sam’s right, you know. You’re a Winchester whether you like it or not.”

This affords you a kind of lopsided smile, like he still doesn’t know how to use his face for expressions at all.

“Thanks, Dean,” he says.

Sam clears his throat, and is already hitting the books again, absently raking a hand through his scalp down to the tip of his hair. It’s what he does when he has the beginnings of a headache.

“How about we call it a day, huh?” you tell them.

 

_\--_


	7. It's too hot and I can't sleep.

 

> _07 - “It’s too hot and I can’t sleep. There's a fox crying in the wilderness."_

 

You bolt upright, wondering if you’re just waking up from a nightmare. The clock blinks 2:45 and there’s someone knocking and a shadow moving through the gap of your door.

“Dean?” it’s Cas. You’ll know that voice even if you heard it in a dream.

“Yeah, hold on,” you call, opening the door.

Cas stands there in the bright light of the hallway still as a statue, face bent in what you know now as fear.

“I thought…” he starts. Stops, gives a big sigh of relief and starts walking away. You grab his arm, of course. He isn’t about to escape explaining why he thought you’d like to be disturbed at 3 in the morning.

“Nightmare?” you ask, because what else can it be. Cas nods dolefully.

“It’s part of the package, Cas,” you say, patting him on the shoulder, pushing him lightly towards his room. “You sleep, you dream.”

You realise as you step inside Cas’ room that you’ve never really been inside. Never really been to Sam’s either. You wonder if it’s just you that has put up this rule that these little spaces in the bunker are sacred. Yours and Sam’s and Cas’ own inner worlds.

You never have had a room of your own before. But you like to think it goes like this: slipping childhood photos in books you keep on your bedside table of you and Sam and your mother. Keeping a work lamp on your desk, similar to the one you kept at Lisa’s that Ben broke rough-housing in the study. Hanging hunting knives and guns just within your arm’s reach more for your wellbeing than necessity. Letting clutter settle like a blanket over furniture like the jacket you say you’ll wash that has been hanging on the back of your chair for weeks, and the books on the nightstand you say you’ll find time to read, notes on your desk that mean nothing at all.

But in Cas’s room, the shelves and the desk are empty. Tidy, like a soldier’s room, or a guest who’s there only for the weekend. His bed is the only evidence that one lives here—a blanket skirting the floor; two pillows, one propped up against the headboard. On the night stand are two books on Enochian symbols, their spines perfectly aligned.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” you say, and make a mental note to give Cas a vase at least, anything that Cas can call his own.

“I try to keep things neat,” he says, looking out of place in his own room in his bedhead, scruffy shirt and sweatpants.

“You don’t even have things, Cas.”

“I don’t really see the point of having things,” he answers.

You want to tell him that he’s allowed to want things, have things. It’s really what you’ve been telling him since the beginning when he appeared before you in all his might and delirious loyalty.

But it’s 3 in the morning. So instead you lift the blanket and motion for him to get in bed. He eases in, blinking confused.

“What?” you say, “Sam used to get nightmares too as a kid. It’s what I do.”

At the door, you ask him if he wants the main lights on and he tells you, “It’s not the dark I’m afraid of.”

“Yeah, sure,” and you switch the lights off. Cas is illuminated by a single lamp on his night stand.

He says, “I thought I lost you, Dean.”

After a pause, you tell him, "It was just a dream, Cas." But you wonder now as you saunter back to your room what he makes of that: you a retreating figure through his door.

 

\--


	8. Hand slipped while peeling potatoes...

  

> _08 - “Hand slipped while peeling potatoes with a hunting knife. Nothing too deep, but I should really get a peeler.”_

 

Cas is bleeding through his shirt. In the dim lights of the motel room, you try to assess the damage: A gaping wound on his upper arm, scratches around the neck, contusions around the left side of his face. You’re stitching his wound up with dental floss and disinfecting it with whiskey. Unhygienic, maybe. But you’ve been doing this all your life and you aren’t about to change things now. And maybe you’re gripping his arm too tight, maybe you’re pulling on the string too hard, because he takes a sharp breath and grabs the arm of the chair he’s sitting on. And maybe, just maybe, you really wanted that last stitch to hurt.

“You’re angry,” he says, not missing a beat.

You wipe the blood off your hands with a towel.

It was a vampire. Just the one. And it took the three of you to defeat it. You think perhaps you’re getting too old for this.

“I’m not,” you say after too long a pause that he doesn’t buy it.

“Dean,” he says, as you wrap a bandage around his arm tightly and quite unkindly. He winces again.

“You’re hurting me,” he says flatly.

“You don’t do that, Cas!” you snap because he is asking for it. Because he had lured the vampire away from you and Sam in that warehouse and gotten the shit beaten out of him.

“Do what?”

“You don’t go risking your neck out like that!” you say as if you don’t do the same thing every time there’s a big bad.

“I had to,” Cas says, resolutely. “It’s why I’m here.”

You pause at that because after all these years, he still doesn’t get that you want him around simply because you want him around. So you let your head fall forward to that slope where his neck meets his shoulder. He feels warm. Too warm and you beat yourself for being too harsh.

“What are you doing, Dean?” he asks.

“You have a fever,” you say. Suddenly you’re breathing is too jagged, like you just run a mile.

“I’m telling you, Cas—” you start but you can’t even begin to tell him what you’ve been meaning to tell him all these years when Sam is knocking on the door and you’re peeling yourself away from his shoulder, quicker than lightning. Sam pauses at the foyer, doesn’t say anything.

 

\--


	9. I don’t know about you, but Bourbon and pickle juice

> _09 - “I don’t know about you, but Bourbon and pickle juice…”_

 

You’re down to the last fifth of your whiskey when the door clicks open and your hand goes for the knife in your boot. Your vision doubles, the movement too quick, and it takes a while to focus.

It’s just Cas coming in from the rain, soaking wet and with a dour look on his face. Briefly, you wish it was a monster instead.

You manage a “Hey, Cas” anyway as you grin up at him, trying your best to look not-drunk and nonchalant. Your ‘Cas’ ends up sounding like a ‘Cath’ anyway and you want to bite your tongue.

“Dean,” he says as he slips out of his drenched coat.

“You’re home early,” you say and you can’t hide the slur in your speech anymore. It’s 2 in the morning and the television is static. Sam is already in his bed snoring.

Cas doesn’t take the bait and refuses to look at you. Instead he sits down on a chair, slips out of his boots.

Earlier at a pub, Sam had put two not three bottles on the table and your eyes flicked towards the bar where Cas was already in deep conversation with a woman. Brunette and a stunner. You had her pegged as a corporate type on a business trip and bored to death at the convention they were forced to attend. So, there she was collecting someone for the night—someone with no strings attached, who wouldn’t hang around ‘til breakfast the morning after. You knew the type. Welcomed them, even. You couldn’t even remember the number of times you slipped out of a motel room at dawn with the name of the girl you just slept with already a blank. You watched as she placed a hand lightly over Cas’ knee, wondered if she’d forget his name in the haze of a red-eye flight back to another city.

“Someone’s having fun,” Sam had said over the loud speakers.

You were able to find an excuse soon after, something lame, like the music being too loud, and you and Sam were making your way out to the parking lot. In the Impala, the backseat a gaping empty, you reasoned that you were giving Cas space, letting him live a little apart from the two of you. Sam gave you a withering look that meant something you’d rather not read into.

“Quit it, Sam. He can take an Uber,” you said.

Cas is so still in his corner, his wet shirt sticking to his chest, hair matted around his face. He looks like he just walked a mile under the rain.

“So, how was it?” you ask and you know that he knows that you are wasted beyond salvation.

“How was what?” Cas says shortly. There’s something strange in his voice that sounds a lot like anger.

“You know…” you say, except you don’t really want to know.

Cas meets your eyes, then says, “I took her home and fucked on the couch,” steadily in that usual severe way he does, as if he’s just telling you the weather report. There’s something underneath his features that looks too much like contempt that it has you reeling and suddenly, you don’t know whether you want to break something or you want to kiss him.

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” he asks and you also don’t know the answer to that, too, can’t even maintain eye contact.

“She’s pretty,” you say, stupidly, slowly after a thick silence that was almost latching on to your skin. And you think about the brunette and her couch, and Cas…

Cas will see her again sometime in the future. Or, if not, he’ll meet someone else. Someone emotionally present and mature, dark hair, green eyes, pretty. Then they’ll get married in a small church up a hill, live in a house away from the highway where it’s safe to raise three kids, then maybe you and Sam will come once a year on every 4th of July, barbecues, the work. It’s what Cas deserves after everything.

So you don’t really understand why you lifted your hand to stop him when he walked past you. Under your touch, he’s so concrete, and your buzzed mind still can’t comprehend how he’s still here leaving little droplets on the floor, how he still made his way back to you despite a pretty brunette, despite the rain, despite death, and heaven, and hell.

“What do you want, Dean?” he asks.

What do you want, indeed. You don’t know. But if there were two doors, one leading to a meadow and another into a den of tigers, you’ll always choose the latter. So maybe that half-explains why you’re on your feet all of a sudden, and why you’re pushing him in through the bathroom door, why you’re pressing him against the wall.

You breathe him in and you remember wind and electricity, an abandoned barn. You say _Cas_ as you exhale. You always liked the shape of his name. And distantly you muse how you gave him that, dropped the _–el_ , the “of God.” Didn’t they say that to name something is to own it? So you tug his hair back and you latch your mouth to his mouth and you push your tongue in. It’s not a kiss, this, as kisses in your book shouldn’t be this brutal. This is you laying claim to what’s already yours to begin with.

He says _Dean_ when you move to his neck but doesn’t tell you to stop, so you unbuckle his belt as you suck a hematoma there at his jugular near his jaw where everyone will see in the morning and neither of you will care. You slip a hand inside and he’s not even hard. If your head was clear, of course you would stop. But it isn’t. Instead you sneak a hand up his shirt where you touch his ribs, his chest, while your other hand pulls your dick out from your jeans.

“Cas,” you say, your breath hot on his neck as you start working on yourself. “Next time, I’ll be the one to fuck you.” You catch his mouth again, all teeth and tongue, like you want to get inside his skin.

“Dean,” he manages to say despite your efforts to never move your mouth away from his again. He brings a hand to your face, not to pull you off of him but to caress, and whisper in your ear, “I didn’t... We didn’t.”

That’s what you wanted to hear, apparently, because you come too suddenly as you muffle your moan on his cheek. Still reeling, you drop to your knees and run your come-stained hand along the hem of his jeans. He’s only half hard when you pull him out of his boxers but you lick a stripe along his cock anyway and he pushes you away.

“Don’t,” he says, voice just above a whisper. “Not while you’re like this.”

Slowly, you stand up, and you tuck yourself in.

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, all right,” and you’re stumbling out the bathroom door, and below you, the blotchy carpet of the motel barely registers. Soon, you’re out the front door, and the rain is hits you in the face as you step out into the parking lot. In your head you swear you’re never picking up a bottle of whiskey ever again.

 

-


End file.
